


One To Grow On

by portraitofemmy



Series: the one with the dog [6]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Birthday, Blow Jobs, Dogs, Established Relationship, Friendship, M/M, Post-Season/Series 04, Quentin Coldwater Lives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-21
Updated: 2019-07-21
Packaged: 2020-07-10 00:37:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19896994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/portraitofemmy/pseuds/portraitofemmy
Summary: Quentin Coldwater turns 27, and despite his own protests, has a very good day. (And also gets a blowjob.)





	One To Grow On

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so this is a little late because I didn’t realize everyone was giving Quentin orgasms for his birthday until after the fact. But, hey, better late than never, right? Have some birthday fic. Not beta’d because I literally wrote this in two hours last night. 
> 
> Like all fics in this series, you could probably read this as a stand-alone if you wanted to.

“So what are you doing for your birthday this year?”

Eliot’s definitely not supposed to be listening to this conversation. Alice and Quentin’s scheduled ‘We Hang Out Because We’re Friends’ afternoon chill session has been relocated to the condo, because it’s approximately four-hundred _million_ degrees outside. So instead they’re here, playing Mario Kart like that’s somehow going to make their friendship _more stable._ And Eliot’s trying to give them space, he really is. He _wants_ this friendship to work for them, because Quentin deserves all the friends he can get in the world, and Q wants to be friends with Alice. So Eliot’s trying to give them space.

Which basically means he’s hiding in their bedroom with the puppy and Quentin’s laptop, binging through Great British Bake-Off and slowly getting all the skin licked off his hands. It doesn’t mean he can’t _hear_ what’s going on in the living room, which is mostly laughter and then swearing followed by periods of tense silence. 

Then Alice asks _that_ , and Eliot can’t help but listen in curiosity, because well– he’d venture a guess at Quentin’s answer, but it doesn’t hurt to hear it from the horse’s mouth, so to speak.

“Nothing,” comes Quentin’s muffled reply. “Honestly, Alice, I don’t want to make a fuss or anything. 

“Are you sure? Because I’m sure Kady and I can get away from The Library, or– Do you want to Travel somewhere? We could get Penny to take us to– some place. That could be fun, maybe.”

Eliot makes a face at Dessy, who’s moved on to chewing lightly on his finger. “He’s not going to want that,” he tells her, and then scolds _“Hey, easy,”_ and extracates his fingers from her mouth.

“God, no, _Alice._ ” Quentin sounds vaguely panicked, and Eliot scowls at the computer screen where someone is burning their buns. “God, no, that’s. I don’t want to be a bother for anyone.”

“It’s your _birthday,_ ” Alice points out. “That’s like the one time you’re supposed to be a bother.”

Eliot grinds his teeth, wants to reach through the door and say _no, baby, no, you’re never a bother. People are allowed to love you, you’re not a burden on us._ But he’s giving them space.

“No, Alice, I swear. I don’t want to do anything.”

“Okay, Jesus,” she snips and Eliot winces. He can tell that she thinks Quentin doesn’t want her around for some imagined plan, and if _Eliot_ can tell that, then Quentin definitely can.

“What do you think, should we go save them?” Eliot wonders to Dessy, who yaps at him and licks his face. “Hmm, thought so.”

Dessy hops down to the floor as Eliot begins the delicate process of extracting his protesting limbs from the bed. She plots her butt down by the door and pants at him, as though to say _take your sweet time, less-favorite human._

“Hey, kiddies, who wants iced coffee?” Eliot calls out, breaking the tense silence which has indeed settled over the living room. “Starbucks run. Q? Alice?”

“I’d take a cold brew, if you’re going?” Quentin mutters, relaxing a little as Dessy bounds over to the couch and hops up onto his lap.

“I know, baby,” Eliot teases, fondly. “Alice?”

“Um– I’d take a frappuccino. Extra shot.” 

Tension sufficiently disrupted, Quentin and Alice go back to their game, and Eliot steps out into the ungodly humidity of the city. Well, at least he gets coffee out of it. Hopefully there’s enough product in his hair that he won’t come back looking like a poodle.

__

Quentin seems to decide to be proactive about the birthday thing, after that. 

Eliot’s in the process of chopping avocado and apples to stuff in a blender with some kale, because vitamins or something. He doesn’t fucking know, Lipson says eat more greens so he’s doing that. Quentin and Julia are parked in the dining room, digging through some tomes on god-power. 

Eliot’s exactly eavesdropping, there’s just no wall between the kitchen and the dining room, only the mostly decorative bookshelf. It’s not like they don’t _know_ he’s there, either, he’d been in the dining room with them moments ago, half asleep in Library book. The weird avocado smoothie was mostly an excuse to extricate himself from the study circle.

“I don’t want to do anything for my birthday this year,” Quentin says, with the air of a man bracing himself for an argument.

“You _never_ what to do anything for your birthday,” Julia said distractedly, clearly not surfacing from her book. “It’s not that’s never stopped me before.”

“No, Julia, I’m serious. This isn’t– I’m not saying that because I’m feeling awkward about not having enough friends to fill a party or whatever. I’m barely out of a major depressive episode this year.”

“All the more reason to celebrate,” Julia says, pointedly. And well. Eliot might be inclined to agree with her, for himself or for Margo, but nothing about Quentin runs that way. Survival wasn’t a cause for celebration, for him. It was something he wanted to stuff in a box and ignore, pretend it had never been a struggle to begin with.

“Come on, Q, I’ve planned all your parties since we were like 12.”

“Yeah, and I spent the last couple hiding from your 4 million friends in my room while feeling like shit for not knowing how to people. Not exactly a _good_ birthday, Julia.”

“I was just trying to _help you_ make friends. Didn’t you hang out at Eliot’s parties at Brakebills? How is that different?”

“Eliot’s parties weren’t about _me,_ they were generally about _Eliot._ Or about getting as fucked up as humanly possible. I wasn’t exactly the life of the party.” 

He hadn’t been, but he’d never exactly hidden, either. Eliot smiles to himself at the memory of the awkward, clumsy first year who’d hung around the corners of the Physical Kids Cottage, drinking cocktails and pretending he wasn’t staring at Eliot. It’s a good memory, one he’d visited more than once in the Happy Place. Even now, it manages not to be sullied by that association. Scraping avocado and green apple into the blender, Eliot remembers how fun it had been to flirt with Quentin, to watch steam build up in his head with the surety that someday, somehow, it was going to burst out. _I was gonna fuck that boy,_ Eliot thinks to himself, smirking as he dumps ice and kale into the blender.

It had never happened the way he wanted it, with girlfriends and wives and the Beast and all of Fillory getting in the way, but it was fine. What they had now was better than any drunken tumble could ever be.

The blender turning on drowns out the rest of the conversation, and by the time all the ingredients are emulsified, Julia and Quentin have moved back to talking about god power. Pouring himself a glass of green sludge, Eliot dumps the rest of it in the sink and leaves the blender to soak. Dessy tries to trip him as he heads back into the living room, because clearly whatever took him away from the rest of the humans was a treat for her, but he’s pretty good at skipping over the dog, at this point.

He drops a kiss on the top of Quentin’s head as he passes, just because he can. Because that awkward little first year may be gone forever, but Eliot loves the man he’s grown into.

___

“I don’t want to do anything big for my birthday,” Quentin murmurs, a couple nights later, when they’re sitting out on the balcony, enjoying the breeze and a very moderate single bottle of wine split between them.

“Well, damn, gonna have to have Margo cancel the fire dancers,” Eliot sighs, but he can’t even be bothered to put any effort into selling it, not when he’s lazy with the heat and pleasantly loose with the wine.

“Please tell me your joking,” Quentin says anyway, from the floor of the balcony, where he’s sitting with Dessy on his lap, conked out with her silly little puppy head on his knee.

“Of course, I’m joking. I think I deserve credit for knowing you better than that,” Eliot points out, reaching out to trail his fingers lazily through the short hair on the back of Quentin’s neck. “Plus I heard you talking to Alice and Julia about it.”

“Snoop,” Quentin accuses, squinting at Eliot, who rolls his eyes.

“Conversations had in common rooms need to be significantly quieter if they’re intended to be private,” Eliot says delicately, making a noise of protest when Quentin grouchily pinches his calf. “Look, it’s not my fault if I’m cooking while you’re having the loudest not-argument with your best friend in history in the dining room. There’s literally no wall between those two rooms.”

“You were making a smoothie, the blender is supposed to be loud,” Quentin gripes, but there’s no heat to it. He leans back against Eliot’s leg, and Eliot takes that as permission to bury his fingers into Quentin’s hair, scratch lightly at his scalp. “I’m serious. I’m pretty sure I was Brian for my last birthday. And– I don’t want to have to pretend that everything’s fine when all I’m going to be thinking about is...”

“Your dad,” Eliot guesses, brushing his thumb softly over the thin skin behind Quentin’s skin.

“Yeah,” Quentin breathes, looking down to the sleeping puppy in his lap, then up at Eliot. “Is that dumb?”

“The fuck do I know? I think you’re probably allowed to grieve, but I’m not exactly like– the poster child for _dealing with emotion in a healthy way._ ” Quentin snorts, rolling his eyes, and Eliot feels a swell of affection in his chest so bright in almost chokes him. Even now, after months, the depth of the love he feels for this man scares him, just a little. This wonderful man, who’s sitting out in the sweltering heat because it makes the ache in Eliot’s joints ease. Who loves easily, and asks only for love in return.

“You’re doing better,” Quentin says, resting his cheek on Eliot’s thigh. “You only look terrified by the future like twice a week, now.”

“Baby steps,” Eliot agrees, raising his glass to clink against Quentins. “Having a _small_ birthday thing might make you feel better, though. Distract you from thinking about your dad?”

“Small by my standards or by yours?” Quentin asks, sounding put-upon. 

“My dearest, darlingest Quentin. The first rule of thumb when gaining a reputation as the party King is to understand your audience. You must be able to throw the _proper_ party for the occasion, you see.”

“Oh, quiet, yes, truly,” Quentin intones, affecting a high society British accent. His dimple sneaks out though, and Eliot’s stupid heart does the melty-thing it does whenever Quentin dimples at him. 

“Which means, while _Margo_ would appreciate fire dancers and literally hundreds of hot men and women to flirt with–”

“–I mean, if I wasn’t _me_ that sounds great–”

“–for you I would err more on the side of ‘let’s get everyone you love in a room and maybe some weed in them.’ Swap out weed for whatever substance you choose, but I’m supposed to be off the harder stuff.”

“That still sounds like a lot of attention on me, though,” Quentin says, quietly. And well. Okay. Eliot gets it. Quentin’s doing better, mostly, but he’s still half-choking under the expectations of everything he thinks everyone expects him to be. When all anyone really expects him to be is– Quentin.

The living, beating heart that ties them all together.

“Baby, have you ever been in a room containing Margo that _didn’t_ just start revolving around her like gravity? And Kady-Alice-Penny-Julia are all on their hetero-bullshit, they’ll be too preoccupied to notice you.”

“I don’t think it’s hetero bullshit if two arms of the triangle are girls sleeping with girls.”

“... it feels like hetro bullshit,” Eliot says, affecting superiority, and Quentin gives him a pointed look.

“Only because it’s drama that doesn’t involve you.”

Which, okay, he might have a point there. “It’s possible I am that self-absorbed, yes.” Quentin snorts loud enough that he startles Dessy awake, and she scampers up in his lap. He shushes her gently, scratching his fingers along her wiggly little body and she yawns hugely.

“I guess it might not be terrible if _you_ planned it,” Quentin tells Dessy, though Eliot can’t imagine he’s actually speaking to her. Since she is a dog. “I remember birthdays in Fillory with Ari’s cousins and other friends.”

“Ari’s cousins taking Teddy home after so we could have a _real_ party,” Eliot murmurs, just to watch Quentin flush at the memory.

“I trust you,” Quentin sighs, laying his head against Eliot’s leg again, and the weight of that trust beats like a drum in Eliot’s chest.

__

It’s a quiet night. 

It’s a very _Quentin_ night.

Everyone who can get away piles into the condo, which turns out to be Julia and Alice and Penny. The Fillory crew couldn’t manage to extricate in time, and Kady had some Hedge business she couldn’t duck out on, but even the small group seems overwhelming to Quentin at first. 

Except Eliot is, in fact, an _excellent host_ , and does know his boyfriend very, very well. So there’s wine flowing, and once they’re all good and tipsy, they pile on to the couch to make fun of some truly terrible movies. It’s possibly the tamest party Eliot’s ever thrown, but Quentin’s practically glowing with happiness by the time they get half way through the Mortal Kombat movie. Even Penny seems to have begrudgingly removed the stick from his ass. 

It’s late enough by the time everyone leaves that Eliot thinks Quentin might just genuinely tumble into bed and pass the fuck out. Which is fine, of course, Eliot’s not– owed Quentin’s orgasms, by any means. If he just wants to go to sleep, Eliot will curl up next to him and feel _grateful_ for it. Still, doesn’t mean he’s not a little hopeful when he comes back inside from letting Dessy out onto the pee-pad on the balcony, and finds Quentin coming out of the bathroom. Sleepy, and smelling more of mint then red wine, Q flops down onto the bed with a sigh.

“Did you have a good birthday, baby?” Eliot wonders, bending down with a groan of pain to untie his shoes and slide them off.

“I did,” Quentin agrees, and when Eliot straightens up, he finds Quentin looking at him with a hot sort of affection. “Thank you for listening to me.”

Eliot just grins, climbing up onto the end of the bed to crawl his way up until he’s hovering over Quentin. “I’m trying to be better about believing you actually know what you want,” Eliot says lightly, and maybe it's a joke, but it carries the weight of an apology too. He’s never going to be done apologizing to Q for this. 

“I know,” Quentin murmurs, reaching up to slide his fingers into Eliot’s curls. Eliot grins, levering himself up to press his lips against Quentins. It’s a lovely kiss, kissing Quentin is _so lovely_ , every single time. _Dear Lord, I will never be tired of this,_ Eliot thinks as he brushes his tongue against the soft curve of Quentin’s lip.

“Anything else you want?” Eliot murmurs when they part, dropping his chin to rest on Quentin’s breastbone, raising an eyebrow. “Since I’m taking instruction and all, right now?”

“Oh, um–” Quentin flushes a little, but his eyes flick down to Eliot’s mouth, and Eliot grins.

The familiarity of Quentin’s body pings through him, as Eliot squirms down the bed, rucking up Q’s shirt to kiss at his belly, the thin trail of hair leading down into his sleep pants. Eliot can’t help think back to the fantasy he’d been entertaining a few days ago, of first year Q and Eliot’s own lazy attempts at seduction. This is _better,_ this is so much better.

Fuck him, but familiarity is _good,_ knowing someone is so much better than Eliot could have ever understood. Instead of the boredom he’d have expected to feel, there’s nothing but a bone-deep security, a sense of being wanted. He knows how to slide his mouth down Q’s cock, how to work his tongue in exactly the right way to make Quentin’s hips push up off the bed. Eliot lets him, takes it, lets Quentin work lazily into his mouth. Revels in the stretch in his jaw and Quentin’s soft little sounds, the play of pleasure across his expressive face. 

“ _El,_ ” Quentin breathes, fingers brushing softly through Eliot’s curls, not grabbing or tugging, just touching like he can’t keep his hands off Eliot. “ _Fuck._ ”

Eliot hums, bringing one hand up to pull the band of Q’s sleep pants down behind his balls, pushing them up so Eliot can roll his palm over them firmly as he pushes down, takes more of Q’s cock in his mouth. It jerks on his tongue, leaking pre-come, and Eliot pushes down as deeply as he can without warming up more, and then pulls all the way up in one long, slow suck.

“You’re so hot when you’re needy,” Eliot murmurs, licking softly around the head of Q’s cock, closing his lips around the head to suckle softly as Quentin _gasps._

“I’m glad you think so,” Quentin half-laughs, and Eliot rolls his eyes, sliding his lips back down Quentin’s dick. Clearly his brain was working too well, still.

That same wonderful, precious _familiarity_ means Eliot knows what Quentin’s build up to orgasm looks like. He knows the way his breathing changes, the frantic movements of his hands, the little subconscious movements of his hips. Eliot lets him chase it, doubles down with every trick he knows to work Q up, get him feeling as good as he possibly can. He deserves that everyday, but especially on his birthday. 

Quentin comes with a startled little sound, startled as ever by his own pleasure. Eliot lets him ride it out, sliding back to suckle at the head, working the shaft of Quentin’s cock with his hand as he comes in pulses across Eliot’s tongue. He collapses back into the bed, boneless, while Eliot swallows with a cough. 

“Fuck,” Quentin mutters succinctly, then starts giggling.

“What are you laughing at?” Eliot accuses, looking up at Quentin sprawled out on the bed. 

“I don’t know,” Quentin replies, scratching his fingers through Eliot’s hair. “I’m happy. I hate to say it, because that pretty much always wrecks it, but I had a good day.”

Eliot’s heart thumps in his chest, helpless and entirely Quentin’s. Pushing up, he drops a soft kiss on Quentin’s brow, on the tip of his nose, on his bitten-red lips. “Good. You deserve good days. Especially on your birthday.”

“It’s just a day,” Quentin says, distractedly, then glances at the dark window. “ And anyway. I’m pretty sure it’s actually the 21st, at this point.”

“Shhhh,” Eliot murmurs, kissing him quiet. “Birthday sex, though.”

Quentin snorts out a laugh, which is possibly not the most sexy thing ever in the world, but Eliot’s too fucking gone to care. “Give me a minute and I’ll get you back.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Eliot says fondly. “You suck my dick enough. I definitely owe you one.”

Quentin hums a little, half asleep already, and Eliot brushes his fingers softly through Quentin’s hair. “I love you, baby,” he whispers, because Quentin should hear it as often as possible, especially today of all days.

“Mmm,” Quentin hums, nuzzling into Eliot’s hand. “You too.” Then he falls asleep, on top of the blankets, with his dick hanging out of his pants.

“You’re a disaster,” Eliot says fondly, and then goes about doing what he does best: taking care of Q.

**Author's Note:**

> I can be found as portraitofemmy on most places, but check out [twitter](https://twitter.com/portraitofemmy) and [tumblr](https://portraitofemmy.tumblr.com/). Thanks for reading!


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